The Schoolmaster's Daughter

by Jackie French

  Hannah hastily put the newspaper back exactly as she’d found it and ran downstairs before the first pupils walked past the house. She sat on the step and smiled tentatively at them. The first group of boys ignored her. The only two girls who did glance at her just giggled.

  No one was going to ask her to skip with them, she realised, or go down to the river, or whatever girls did after school here. She slowly climbed the stairs again to wait for dinner.

  It was another silent meal. Mama had made cottage pie instead of meat pudding. Papa loved cottage pie and Mama didn’t, so it might have been meant as an apology. Though, looking at Mama’s face, Hannah doubted it.

  She and Mama did the washing up in silence, and neither she nor Angus objected when Mama told them quietly to go to bed as soon as the lamps were lit. They are going to discuss what happened today, thought Hannah. And they won’t while they think we are awake.

  She left her bedroom curtains open to watch the moon rise. It glinted through the trees at first, turning them black, then rose into the sky, streaming gold all around it. If she stared at the moon and tried to count the stars she might not fall asleep.

  Finally, she heard voices. She tiptoed to her door and opened it, then crept back to bed in case anyone came down the corridor. But the voices came from Mama and Papa’s room next door.

  They were too low to make much out at first.

  ‘. . . undermine my authority!’ That was Papa. ‘I thought up here we would be safe from your suffragist friends and ideas. That you would finally accept a woman’s proper role is solely to be wife and mother and helpmeet to her husband! I will not have it!’

  ‘And I will not have my daughter expected to teach Infants in a one-teacher school . . .’

  Papa’s voice grew louder. ‘If you had asked your family, just once, to use their influence, I might be master at a decent school by now, not having to bow and scrape to that man Harris. As if my sole ambition in life is to be principal of a school for the children of mill workers and plantation foremen. And now you expect me to teach them with no assistance . . .’

  A murmur from Mama.

  ‘I will not let you hire an assistant to replace you and my daughter!’ Papa cried. ‘How dare you throw your money in my face?’

  Hannah barely caught Mama’s reply, her voice was so low. ‘. . . find a position then on your own merits.’

  ‘Because that is not how the world works!’ Papa spoke even louder. ‘I assumed that as my wife you’d ask your family to use their connections to find me a suitable position, in a town where my family would have suitable society. Instead we are in a nowhere town where an upstart like Harris acts like a king. You even encourage my own daughter to rebel against her father!’

  Mama’s voice grew loud too. ‘Isn’t it enough that you demand I hide my face! Will you hide my daughter now from the future she deserves?’

  ‘Why did you marry me then, if this life is not to your taste? I would have thought you would show a little gratitude to the man who married you despite your scars.’

  Suddenly the room next door seemed filled with silence. Hannah had never heard either of her parents mention Mama’s scar. It was as if it didn’t exist.

  At last Mama spoke, so softly it was almost impossible to hear the words. ‘I didn’t know that gratitude was expected. That was foolish of me.’

  ‘I apologise,’ said Papa stiffly in a voice that did not seem sorry at all. ‘I should not have used the word gratitude. But you married a schoolmaster. Now you complain because you are part of a schoolmaster’s family. You are robbing Hannah of the experience she could use to get her own teaching certificate. Teaching is an honourable career, even for a woman!’

  ‘Yet today you turned away the one pupil who truly yearns to learn.’

  ‘Have you no sense, woman! Thanks to your family’s refusal to help, my career depends on pleasing the school board, and that means placating Mr Harris. Have you any idea how many Islander children there may be around here? If we let one in the school, they will all want to come. Have you no idea how you are endangering my position? Mrs Murphy said you even had that boy in this house.’

  ‘Back at Ferndale—’

  ‘This is not your parents’ home. It is mine! That boy is not even an Australian native.’

  ‘Isn’t this my home too? Have I no right to bring who I like here? I once thought that you were a man of courage, integrity . . .’ Mama’s voice became muffled.

  ‘And I thought you were a woman of sense, who would help my career, not make me a laughing stock.’

  ‘What of Hannah’s career? Do you seriously expect her to teach Infants all her life?’

  ‘I certainly do not. No daughter of mine should work for her living. But Hannah is never going to meet a suitable husband while I am posted to districts like this. At least if she is an assistant teacher in a larger district she will have access to a better class of person.’

  More words, indistinct, from Mama. She sounded like she was crying.

  Then Papa’s voice, loud in rage. ‘You made me a laughing stock today! You made your daughter a laughing stock! Every pupil in that school saw Hannah walk to this house with an Islander boy. By tonight every household will have heard of it! You, who are so fervent in your rights for women, have torn away any chance your daughter might have had in this benighted town . . .’

  Hannah then slid back into bed and put her pillow over her head. She should not hear this. She wished she hadn’t heard a word of it.

  And tomorrow night would be worse, because Mrs Murphy would tell Papa that Jamie had been here for lessons again. Probably the whole town would know that Jamie had been here again, that she was friends with an Islander boy — even if he didn’t seem to like her much. She wished . . .

  No, she did not wish today’s rebellion had never happened. Because no matter what Papa said, she wanted more from life than being the schoolmaster’s daughter.

  She didn’t yet know what she did want. But she knew she would not find it in the schoolhouse at Port Harris.

  CHAPTER 13

  NEW VOICES IN A SILENT HOUSE

  Even Mrs Murphy was silent at breakfast. It was like being in a fairy story where the castle had been enchanted by an evil fairy and everyone had been put to sleep, Hannah thought, except in this house people moved and dressed and ate, but no one spoke except to say, ‘Pass the butter, please’ or ‘Thank you’. Even Angus didn’t chatter. He had left Monkey in his bedroom, as if he didn’t want his beloved toy to sit through another silent meal too.

  Mama and Hannah helped Mrs Murphy clear the table of its remnants of corned beef hash, then washed up together while Mrs Murphy mopped the floor. Mrs Murphy at last gave a great sigh, as if she could bear the silence no longer, and began a seemingly endless story about her nephew who had gone to sea and found himself scrubbing decks.

  ‘. . . but will you credit it, not with a mop, oh, no, but with a stone. Did you ever hear the like, scrubbing boards with a stone? And they used seawater too, while everyone knows that salt rots wood something terrible . . .’

  The Port Harris church bell chimed once for eight thirty.

  Mama dried her hands on a tea towel and said, ‘Please excuse us, Mrs Murphy. Come, Hannah.’

  They made their way to Papa’s study. Hannah had just conclusively proved that if 3x=24 then x=8 when the clock chimed nine. By nine thirty Jamie still had not appeared, and Hannah knew she never wanted to do algebra ever again.

  Ten o’clock . . . Hannah started at the faint knock on the front door. One knock only, as if the person who stood there was uncertain.

  Mrs Murphy almost certainly hadn’t heard it down in the kitchen or laundry. Hannah ran down the corridor and flung the door open, then stared in horror.

  ‘Mama!’

  Jamie swayed in the doorway. His shirt was stained with what Hannah thought was blood, then realised, with relief, was tomato. But that was blood from a cut above his eyebrow, and he held his body as if he was
hurt.

  ‘Jamie!’ Mama held out her arms to support him. ‘Come downstairs to the bathroom. Hannah, get one of your father’s shirts.’

  ‘One of Papa’s?’

  ‘I suppose the shirts really belong to Mr Harris,’ said Mama grimly, ‘but he gave them to us. Come on, Jamie. Hannah, there is a medicine basket in the kitchen. Bring that to the bathroom when you’ve brought the shirt, and ask Mrs Murphy for a strong cup of tea with plenty of sugar.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ said Jamie hoarsely. ‘They was waiting for me. They said I had ideas above my station. They took my shoes too. They only let me go when I promised I was just coming here to say I wouldn’t ever come again. They said this was just a warning, that next time they’d string me up.’

  ‘Who said that? Who did that to you?’

  Jamie shook his head.

  ‘The shirt,’ said Mama abruptly to Hannah as she helped Jamie down the corridor.

  Hannah ran for the shirt. All the ones in the drawer were white, their collars next to them. She hesitated, then grabbed a shirt and left the collar behind. She ran down to the bathroom, handed Mama the shirt without looking in at a possibly half-naked young man, then galloped back upstairs. She had known Jamie risked being yelled at or insulted for coming here. She hadn’t realised that he faced violence too. And this was just a warning. Next time would be worse.

  Mrs Murphy was wiping the already clean kitchen table, pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping. Hannah found the medicine basket, with its rolled bandages, cotton wool and rubbing alcohol.

  ‘Could I have a cup of strong sweet tea, please, Mrs Murphy?’

  Mrs Murphy put her hands on her hips. ‘And would that be for you now?’

  ‘No, Mrs Murphy. I’m not allowed tea yet.’

  ‘For your mother then, is it?’

  ‘No, Mrs Murphy.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d tell your mother from me that I’ve worked here nigh on fourteen years and no complaints from anyone, but I’ve never served a cup of tea to a darkie nor washed up a cup after one neither and I won’t be starting now.’

  Good girls didn’t argue with their elders. Nor was there any need to give Mama the message — Mrs Murphy’s speech could have been heard in the next paddock. Hannah just said, ‘Yes, Mrs Murphy,’ and took the kettle, still steaming on the edge of the wood stove, and poured fresh hot water into the breakfast teapot. Cup, saucer, milk, sugar, teaspoon . . . By the time she’d gathered them, the tea she poured out looked as dark as Reedy Pond back home. No, this was home now, she reminded herself, a strange, fractured home.

  She carried the medicine basket and the teacup carefully downstairs. Jamie wore the clean shirt and Mama had rinsed his stained one. He had washed his face too and his cut had stopped bleeding, though Hannah could see a bruise swelling. She passed him the tea.

  He stirred and sipped it, then said, ‘I’m sorry. Like I said, I won’t be coming again.’

  He winced as Mama dabbed iodine on his cut. ‘No,’ said Mama slowly. ‘I don’t think you should come here again.’

  Hannah stared at her. ‘But, Mama . . .’

  Mama took Hannah’s hand and held it hard. ‘It’s far too dangerous for you, Jamie. I . . . I’m sorry, I’m a stranger here, I didn’t understand how different things are in the north. I realised yesterday afternoon after you left that it might be better if we had our lessons out at your farm, but I still had no idea how much you are risking. It would still be a risk, of course, to study at the farm, but if we’re careful no one need know about it but ourselves. Would you be prepared to face possible danger and keep learning?’

  Jamie nodded, looking stunned.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘And do you think your mother would agree to us going out there?’

  ‘Too right she would. She’d love it.’

  ‘Me too?’ asked Hannah.

  Mama looked surprised. ‘Yes, of course. And Angus might join us when he’s a bit older. If he is to go to a good school later he will need far better preparation than he will get from this Gwen girl.’

  ‘But Papa—’ Hannah bit off the words. She knew that if Papa found out, he would not allow this.

  This was the third secret Mama had expected her to keep from her father. The book catalogue was a small secret. Mama teaching Jamie was a bigger one. But going to the Zebediahs’ farm every school day was an enormous one. Yet if Hannah didn’t keep the secret, Jamie would never get the education he longed for, never be able to read a book or a newspaper.

  All Hannah’s life so far had revolved around what Papa wanted, and the school where he was the master. Last Christmas holidays the family had all whitewashed the Lyrebird Creek schoolhouse, getting whitewash everywhere and laughing and pretending they were ghosts. Together, they had decorated Papa’s school for Christmas, or gathered birds’ nests for nature study, or collected firewood in winter to keep the fire high so the ink didn’t freeze in the inkwells and everyone’s fingers didn’t become too cold to write. The school was the centre of their lives, and Papa was the centre of the school.

  Hannah had loved the school at Lyrebird Creek; she’d loved being part of it, being the schoolmaster’s daughter. But all that was gone now, in the past. Something new was emerging. Something that might be good; or might be so bad that people would laugh at her if they found out, and there would never be a suitable man who might want to marry her, just like Papa had threatened. Except . . .

  ‘Do I have to wear a pinafore to the farm?’ she asked Mama.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I study all kinds of things?’

  ‘As long as you also study the subjects you’ll need if you really do want to go to university.’

  Suddenly university seemed very far away. There was so much Hannah wanted to know now. So much she wanted to read, to talk about. She glanced at Jamie. He was sitting quietly on the corner of the bathtub, just listening, even though this would affect his life as much as hers, or even more.

  ‘Can we study novels and poetry as well as textbooks?’ she asked.

  ‘We can study whatever you and Jamie want to read, and go wherever those books lead you,’ Mama said. She looked out the bathroom door at the paddocks and the trees beyond, the glimpse of the railway track that ran to Mr Harris’s plantation to carry the cane to the mill for processing. ‘I wanted my daughter to have the kind of childhood I had,’ she said quietly. ‘Exploring the world in books, or on horseback with my brothers. I thought that would be your life too if I married your father. I was wrong. But at least I can give you books that show you different worlds and lives.’

  Finally, Jamie spoke. ‘Can I read poems too, instead of the books for little kids that you showed me upstairs?’

  Mama nodded. ‘If that’s what you want. It’ll be harder though.’

  ‘Can’t be as hard as digging a paddock of potatoes,’ said Jamie with a sudden grin.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ said Hannah.

  Teaching Jamie wouldn’t be like teaching the Infants. She wouldn’t even have to take him down to the outhouse in case he wet his pants. She swallowed a giggle at the image.

  ‘You said you’d tell me a poem today if I did all them letters,’ said Jamie tentatively. ‘And I did all them letters.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ replied Mama. ‘All right, here’s one that I used to teach each year at Lyrebird Creek. It’s a sad one though.’

  ‘“Beth Gelert?”’ asked Hannah at once. ‘That’s one of my favourites.’

  Mama nodded. ‘By William Robert Spencer.’

  ‘How can you have a favourite that’s sad?’ demanded Jamie.

  ‘Because sad can be the most beautiful of all,’ Mama said. ‘The other side of happiness is sadness.’

  Hannah listened as Mama stood, her hands folded in front of her — the proper way to recite — and began. The first verses of the poem were about how, at the great hunt, the most faithful of all of Llewellyn’s dogs, Bet
h Gelert, didn’t appear.

  ‘“Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?

  The flower of all his race!

  So true, so brave; a lamb at home,

  A lion in the chase!”’

  But then Llewellyn arrived home.

  Hannah glanced at Jamie as Mama kept reciting. How could he understand words he must never have heard before? But he didn’t look bored. Instead, he was staring at Mama, biting his lips as he concentrated.

  ‘Aghast the chieftain stood;

  The hound all o’er was smeared with gore,

  His lips, his fangs ran blood!’

  Hannah must have heard the poem a hundred times now, but she still hoped the ending might change.

  ‘He called his child — no voice replied;

  He searched — with terror wild.

  Blood! Blood! he found on every side,

  But nowhere found the child!

  ‘“Hell-hound! my child’s by thee devoured!”

  The frantic father cried;

  And to the hilt, his vengeful sword

  He plunged in Gelert’s side!’

  Jamie sat still and intent as Mama described how the baby suddenly cried out from his crib, unharmed, and underneath the crib Llewellyn found a dead wolf.

  ‘For now the truth was clear:

  The gallant hound the wolf had slain,

  To save Llewellyn’s heir.

  ‘And now a gallant tomb they raise,

  With costly sculpture decked;

  And marbles, storied with his praise,

  Poor Gelert’s bones protect.

  ‘Well, Jamie,’ asked Mama when she’d finished, ‘what do you think?’

  Jamie looked out the bathroom door, as if the horses in the paddock might give him an answer.

  He didn’t understand, thought Hannah. He may want to learn, but he’s never gone to school. How could he follow a long poem like that, with unfamiliar words like ‘gore’ or ‘storied with his praise’?